


Biscuits

by MarigoldVance



Series: des p'tits sucrés [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (animal spirits), (shape shifters), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cookies, Fox!Fíli, Grumpy Old Men, Little towns, M/M, Otter!Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldVance/pseuds/MarigoldVance
Summary: It isn’t strange, in Little Appleton on Bree, to witness an otter leaving from the back door of the bakery every morning exactly two minutes after the baker's timer pings.
Relationships: Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: des p'tits sucrés [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900903
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	Biscuits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PatchworkIdeas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatchworkIdeas/gifts).



> _to the kindest, warmest, gentlest soul i am blessed to know. thank you, my dearest[PatchworkIdeas](https://patchworkideas.tumblr.com/), for your friendship and your love_ ❤️
> 
> *
> 
> originally posted to the [Secret Admirers Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SecretAdmirers2020)

It isn’t strange, in Little Appleton on Bree, to witness an otter leaving from the back door of the bakery, awkwardly moseying on its stubby back legs with an armful of fresh-out-the-oven biscuits. In fact, it is entirely commonplace. What’s even more _not strange at all_ is the handsome fox, orange coat gleaming gold in the morning sun, that waits for the otter to meet him at the corner before they turn together and saunter leisurely into the forest.

Mr. Pimble isn’t convinced the town understands or is even aware of what happens with the otter and the fox, despite having listened to a bubbly tale from Ms. Chestnut when he got his hair cut last week. Silly and innocent as it was, Mr. Pimble thinks the otter and the fox are getting away with far too much; stealing from the baker, pillaging various gardens and napping wherever they like, on anyone’s lawn furniture, as if they know the mayor personally and aren’t _animals_ who need to stay where they’re meant to be!

After all, this could just be the beginning of the infestation! If the town continues to pretend this is all fine and dandy, it’ll be overrun by wildlife and then where will they be? Having tea with the badgers? Inviting the birds in for brunch?

No thank you; he won’t stand for it!

Mr. Pimble decides to act on an overcast, cool Wednesday morning in September, three weeks after he changes the name on the mailbox at the end of his drive from Bagwell to his own. He hears the chime of the baker’s timer and readies his Ketch-all, gripping it in his meaty fists as he glares down the alleyway, hidden behind a tower of cardboard recycling. His hip and knee protest, the weather not doing him any favors, but he’s determined to correct this outrageous situation.

Small scritch-scratch footsteps scuttle over the cobblestone, up the length of the alley and around the bend to the baker’s back door, left ajar after the baker emptied a box of stales when he first arrived. And, oh no, of course _stales_ aren’t good enough for cheeky otters, are they? Because the otter lopes right by the dumpster, through the slight opening between door and jamb and disappears inside.

A villainous grin twists Mr. Pimble’s mouth and he buckles down, muscles tense with anticipation. At his feet sits a cage large enough to humanely transport the critter from the town center to the lake many kilometers down the valley where Mr. Pimble intends to release him and his passive little fox-friend.

He doesn’t have long to wait. Exactly two minutes after he entered, the otter exits, swaying as he tries to coordinate himself on two legs with an impressive armful of fresh bickies and, Mr. Pimble squints, two blueberry scones.

The _nerve_!

Thankfully, there isn’t much of a struggle, the otter burdened under the cumbersome weight of his loot. He does let out a stunned squeak and a cacophony of hisses when he’s manhandled into the cage, his quick, pointy fingers clawing uselessly at the loop-cord banded snug around his neck. The otter has even more to say when Mr. Pimble frees him from the Ketch-all and locks him safely in the cage. If he were less sane, Mr. Pimble would think the otter was shaking a fist at him …

Impossible.

Capturing the fox is a smidge harder than Mr. Pimble predicted but still, Mr. Pimble snags him up when the fox comes searching for his otter. How Mr. Pimble knew the fox would show any sort of concern _at all_ , he’ll never say, but his gut was right and that’s all that matters. The fox, Mr. Pimble is surprised to note, goes easy and obediently as soon as he spots his otter attempting to pry open the bars of its temporary prison.

Gathering up the cage and deciding to simply walk the fox at the end of the Ketch-all, Mr. Pimble jogs to his van parked on the street just beyond the alleyway. It’s too early for pedestrians and all the shop owners are usually preparing their stock, out of sight of the large display windows.

Once he shoves the two vermin in the back of his van, ensuring everything is locked up tight, Mr. Pimble swings into the driver’s seat and speeds out of town. He drives for an hour, rumbling down as much motorway as he's willing in order to put a great distance between Little Appleton on Bree and the fox and otter. Whatever is necessary to keep them from finding their way back.

It’s a very detached farewell and Mr. Pimble feels light as air in his victory when he returns home later that morning. He’s so giddy, he decides to stop in at the baker’s and buy himself two blueberry scones for breakfast. Besides, he deserves a treat for his good deed, he thinks.

His mood disintegrates the next morning when he sees the otter and the fox strolling past his drive on their way toward the trail that leads into the forest, the otter’s arms full of biscuits and, today, also a fresh, flaky croissant … The next morning sees Mr. Pimble repeating his plan although, this time, he drives further and travels deeper into the woods, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror the whole way home to make certain he isn’t being followed.

This happens thrice more – he goes farther and farther, deeper and deeper, yet, each time, the fox and the otter somehow impossibly always make it back by morning to plunder a healthy taking of the baker’s goods. He’s about ready to pull his hair out when the fox and the otter, during his fourth attempt to rid the town of them, merely accept their fate and jump into the back of his van without preamble, yipping and clicking at each other as if in the middle of a very interesting conversation, hardly paying Mr. Pimble any mind.

“This is their town, you know.” The baker tells him when he drags himself in on the fifth day, haggard and depressed. “They’ve been here as long as we ‘ave.”

“That’s not possible.” Mr. Pimble insists. “Foxes only live about five years! Otters, _maybe_ twenty! This town is far older!”

“Aye,” The baker agrees but says no more on the matter, bags Mr. Pimble's purchases and gives him a polite, faintly secretive smile on his way out.

It goes against everything he is to quit but quit Mr. Pimble does since the fox and the otter repeatedly outsmart him, returning and going about their routine as if nothing happened.

A week after his final attempt, Mr. Pimble hears a quick, tiny rap at his front door while he’s in his kitchen preparing coffee on the stove. He tugs the curtain back from the window beside the door but doesn’t see anyone or hear anything else. He almost swallows his tongue when steps out and sees what was left on his welcome mat.

The small bundle of biscuits is definitely a shock but it’s the note, written legibly in neat, angular script, signed with an animal handprint in the corner, that causes him to go rigid as a plank and fall backwards into his foyer, fainting like a Victorian maid:

“ _No hard feelings_.” It says.

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly imagined this as some sort of _Wallace & Gromit_ scene, narrated in the same voice as the _Hitchhiker's Guide_ movie. 😅 do with that information what you will.


End file.
